


The stars are not wanted now

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Russingon, Suicide Attempt, but only allusions, mentions of torture, not a happy fic I'm afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maedhros blinked again, now against the sting of tears, and thought of his high helm flaming bright and his eyes blue as the heavens on a summer morning, in forgotten lands." What if Maedhros' grief after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the ever-returning nightmare of past atrocities, became for a moment too much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The stars are not wanted now

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from W. H. Auden's heartbreaking poem _Stop all the clocks_ (a.k.a. _Funeral Blues_ ).

Maedhros stood, looking down. Water swirled and fumed beneath him, its wail deafening in his ears. He stepped closer, sending scree crumbling into the white spray beneath, tottering on the lip of the cliff. He turned his eyes to the skies, charcoal among the brown, sere leaves of wintry trees, and blinked as rain splashed on his cheeks. The clouds far above vomited forth the mists belched by the earth, and groaned with deep thunder at their burden. Maedhros blinked again, now against the sting of tears, and thought of his high helm flaming bright and his eyes blue as the heavens on a summer morning, in forgotten lands. He made to step closer still. 

“Nelyo!” Arms were jerking him backward, and beneath his stumbling feet the rock growled, a slab toppled into the wrath of the cataracts. Celegorm stood there, breathing hard, and dazedness was plastered onto his face. He inched further away from the edge of the cliff and tugged his brother along with him. Maedhros did not resist. 

“You could have fallen.” Celegorm clasped him tighter; he gazed up into his eyes and begged him to lie. 

Maedhros just nodded. He swallowed as the darkening sky was cracked open by a flash of lightning; tears clung to his eyelashes, clustering at the corners of his eyes and sliding down, uselessly, pathetically. 

_(“Are you going to cry for me, princeling?” His sneer was exquisite, poised with cruelty as cutting as the blade he had burrowed into Maedhros’ skin, splitting his veins. “Are you going to beg?”_

_And Fingon had held him as nightly terrors tore the scabs off wounds and sank into the mushy, hurting flesh beneath. Through it all Fingon had held him, even as the candle guttered and died, assuring him that he was all right, that it was over.)_

“Let’s go,” Celegorm was saying. “We’ll drown out here with the way it’s pouring down.” 

And Maedhros went. He allowed his brother to lead him by the hand. He perched on the edge of his bed and let Maglor pat the wetness out of his hair with a towel. He offered no comfort at the horror in Maglor’s eyes, at the gutting comprehension that dawned as Celegorm recounted where he had found him. He made no response when Maglor hurried outside with a sickened grimace and a feeble apology, when Amrod sat by him and prattled weakly on. 

And when finally he sank into the forgetfulness of slumber, his last thought was of blue and silver banners defiled with gore. 


End file.
